Counting Down
by WastingTime999
Summary: On December the 21st, Molly Hooper is diagnosed with terminal cancer, her life slipping through her watery grip. She plays pretended. Life carries on in sweet ignorance. But the drowning depression is painful, the lonely loss of friendship torture, and Moriarty can't stay hidden in the shadows forever… (Rewrite of 'If you had Nine Months')
1. Then- Chapter 1

**Then**

**Chapter One: Prologue**

Then she'd felt so empty, her heart was just a labyrinth of lonely corridors, all twisted and lost.

She'd known for months really, the headaches, the insomnia, but once you tell yourself a lie so many times, you start to believe it, and the walls of her home were painted with sticky lies, all sugar-coated in excuses. Silly excuses.

But excuses never last long.

And when the truth burnt a hole through her tangle of lies, she wasn't shocked. She wasn't sad. She was empty. Fire seared through her lungs, blood poured from her chest, her mouth, her ears, her nose, her eyes, it was everywhere. But she couldn't see it, and the more she tried to stop the bleeding, the worse it got.

Then she'd felt so alone, she wished she was invisible.

Not even the wrinkled doctor who rubbed her back and gave her coffee could stop the bleeding. Because he couldn't see it either. But it was there. The sand-timer had turned, and was wasting minutes away as seconds. Every moment was numbered.

Going home was torture. She'd called John to drive her but didn't tell him the truth. Instead, pushing her shoulders back and brushing it off as 'just another check-up.' He was so engrossed in talking about his new daughter, he barely even glanced at her. He didn't notice how she closed her eyes when he looked at the road. He didn't notice the bruises of exhaustion scaring her pale face. He just played along. Ignorant.

Alone at home, the bleeding grew so much stronger.

She shivered and sobbed.

She bit her nails.

She pulled her hair.

There was crimson on the carpet.

Crimson on the doors.

The lies smearing the walls melted. Questions rattled her skull like bullets, lines creased her forehead.

And still she lied.

Because when you tell yourself a lie so many times, you start to believe it.

So she sat in her stuffy living room with Toby, watching time slip through her watery grip and breathing in the stuffy smell of home.

Then she'd felt so empty, she bled to feel alive.

And she swore that no one would know.

Not now.

Not ever.

**Authors Note:**

**So this is a rewrite of my story: 'If you had Nine Months,' because I did that thing where you look back at some of your old stuff and want to rip your hair out because it's just so bad! But I still liked the general story line, so this will include bits from the other story, and new bits too. Sorry it's so short and it might not make much sense, but other chapters will be a lot longer, and will make more sense. ****J****I don't know if I'll carry this on, because I'm lazy, but anyways…**

**Review?**

**Pleeeeeease ****J**

**(I don't own Sherlock or any of the characters. If I did, then season 4 would be out tomorrow.)**


	2. Then- Chapter 2

**Then**

**Chapter Two: A secret**

**(Warning- This chapter has swearing)**

Molly hated secrets.

She hated the way they stuck in people's ears like toffee, and slowly contaminated every mouth, blackening relationships with rotting lies, and nibbling at our brains like rats. She'd never had many secrets to tell. She'd never had many friends to tell them to.

But things change.

Now Molly has the biggest secret of her life.

So she took some time off work. Two weeks in fact.

The day after her diagnosis, she rang Barts hospital and mumbled into the mouthpiece about flu. It sounded believable. Her voice was raspy and quiet.

"Oh no! You poor thing! I've heard the flu is going around, and of course you take as much time off as you need. Come back as soon as you're feeling better, would you like me to let Sherlock know?"

No. Sherlock shouldn't know. Neither should Mary. Or John. Or her family. They didn't deserve the burden.

She couldn't tell them about the cancer.

Couldn't.

Couldn't.

Wouldn't.

She wondered if they'd believe she had flu.

"Yes please."

"Okay then. Get well soon!"

She dropped the phone on the floor, and stared at the ceiling. She felt nothing.

People called her. She ignored them, instead resorting to texting, claiming to have 'lost-her-voice' which wasn't a complete lie. Her entire body ached. She was so tired.

Mary texted her almost every day, constantly bugging her about health and eating well. John called all the time, and sent texts about mouldy toenails under his bed. Sherlock sent her nothing.

Every day lasted for centuries. She stared into blank spaces for five days, memorising every scratch, every crack, every pattern in the floral wallpaper.

She wondered if this was how Sherlock felt. Noticing every single digit, every single pattern. Never being able to drag himself out from the hole, never being able to stop, to turn it off.

She decided she never wanted to live like that.

One day passed.

And then another

And then more days

Everything hurt

Everything was stupid

Everything was tired

There was nothing.

And then she snapped.

Her eyes slammed open. Her dry throat caught fire. Anger bubbled inside her. The world was so petty and stupid, so small and ignorant, so unfair.

So unfair.

So fucking unfair.

She wasn't underwater anymore.

She could hope, she could scream, she could fight.

She could loose, she could win, she could see.

And she screamed.

Her face buried into the pathetic grip of a pillow, she screamed until her throat caught fire, until her stomach ached and twisted, until her head pounded like drums and the vertebra crackled in agony. The hollow feeling was gone. Now she was alive. Now she could see how fucking wrong her fate was. Now she could feel.

The world kept spinning, the clock kept moving, the TV laughed. Molly set fire to the living room, to the kitchen, to the bedroom. She clawed at her scalp pulling hair out and drawing blood under her fingernails. She bit into her hands and screamed in fury. She let everything go.

And no one knew.

"Have you heard from Molly?"

"Nope."

"Bit weird. She normally answers my texts. I think I'll pop around see if she's okay. Want to come?"

"No."

"Okay I'll rephrase that. Sherlock get up, we're going to Molly's. I'll let John know."

Sherlock didn't move. Mary grabbed his arm and tried to pull him from the microscope.

"Come on Sherlock. We're going."

"Nope."

She yanked at his arm harder and he fell off the stool as she threw his coat at him, and yanked him out by his wrist.

"Yep. We are." She snapped.

"Get off me! I am this close to finding the dog thief in London," He signalled with his fingers, "and you want to visit a woman who you can visit at any point in your life to risk the life of an innocent animal!?" Mary swivelled around and scowled at him.

"A) I know the 'dog thief' is dead because you told me so three days ago, and B) Since when did you care about other lives? Besides, I know how much you love seeing Molly after that Christmas party!" She winked at him and closed the door behind them. Sherlock glared.

"Shut up Mary. I was drunk. And I don't remember telling you he was dead?"

"You didn't. I deduced it. And you confirmed it!" She laughed and they left Baker Street, listening to Mrs Hudson complain about Sherlock's experiments again. Mary rolled her eyes as she hailed a cab.

"You know you really should buy a mini-fridge. It'd be much better for poor Mrs Hudson." She scolded as they got in.

"Nah. More fun this way." He replied, smirking. Mary hit him on the arm and told the cabbie Mollys address. Soon they were flying through London in a blur of traffic lights and raincoats.

Seven arguments over radio stations, and one million eye rolls later, they arrived at Molly's house. Mary thanked the driver, paid him, and pulled Sherlock from the car.

"Well, I've visited Molly's now, so I'll be off." Sherlock announced, turning around. Mary held him by his sleeve, and rang the doorbell.

"Shut up Sherlock, you can speak to the poor woman for only 5 minutes can't you?" He didn't reply.

They stood for a while. No one came out. Mary frowned.

"See! She's not in. Let's go." Sherlock announced turning on his heels. Mary held him in place and hit the doorbell again. This time rustling could be heard from the other side.

"You okay Molls? We just came to see how you are. I've heard the flu is going around." Mary said loudly, poking her head around to the window.

Finally the door opened. Sherlock swallowed. Mary blinked.

"Oh hey! Sorry, I must look a bit of a state." She mumbled smiling.

She stood in the doorway with hair up at every angled, marks from bed sheets over her cheeks, a puffy red nose and a tired smile. But she was smiling She looked normal. She looked like silly old Molly. Mary grinned at her ear to ear. She sniffed and returned the expression.

"Wow. You look bad. Not going to lie." Mary commented as she ushered her back into the warm and yanked Sherlock in too, shutting the door behind them. She shook of her red coat, hanging it on a hook. Sherlock stood awkwardly. Molly turned her back to them and shuffled through to the living room in her pink bunny slippers. They followed.

"Again, sorry about the mess. This is the worst flu I've had in forever." She said. Mary frowned. The room was a sea of tissues and empty packets of ready-made meals. In the corner, the TV glared and mumbled sad stories, the cream carpet had yellowed slightly, coated in the sticky rubbish, and thick blankets flooded the sofa. The room had a sort of stuffy, sticky smell, and the air felt like toffee. Molly's house had never been this disgusting. Mary bit her lip.

"Have, uhm, you been to the doctors?" She asked looking awkward. Molly swirled around looking vacant.

"It's just, your house is normally impeccably clean, this must be pretty bad flu." She added quickly. Molly shrugged.

"Don't think I need to now. I seem to be getting better. All I've got to recover from now is this hellish cold." She stated, pointing to her puffy nose. Mary nodded sympathetically. Sherlock hadn't said a word. He looked out of place. Like he didn't quite belong somehow. Like he knew something.

"Hi Sherlock." Molly mumbled, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear glancing down. He nodded to her stiffly. Mary giggled and elbowed Molly.

"Maybe I should leave you two love-birds to it! I'll go make tea." She glanced up with wide eyes, and a crimson blush on her cheeks. Mary watched. Somehow, in some way, something was wrong. She shook it off_. Molly is fine_. _Don't be silly Mary._

"We're not- I mean- Me and Sherlock-" Mary laughed as she stuttered, and went to the kitchen. Sherlock rolled his eyes, but didn't move. Molly flopped down on the sofa, fiddling with the rubber buttons on the TV remote. Sherlock stayed standing. The silence was sticky. Sherlock cleared his throat.

"So, how's… James…?" He tried. Molly sighed.

"It's _Jack_ Sherlock. And he's fine. We're going to see my Mum this weekend. Hopefully they've forgotten Tom by now. " She said. He couldn't see her face, but her voice was quieter. Something was off. She loved seeing family. Maybe she'd had a fight with her Mother. Yes. That was it. Just a petty argument.

He didn't ask.

He doesn't know why.

Maybe he just didn't want to know.

Instead, he nodded, and finally pulled his coat off, draping it over the back of a chair opposite Molly which he sat down in. She smiled. A plastic expression.

"Any interesting cases?" She asked, knowing how much he loved to talk about his work. He visibly lit up.

"Oh yes."

They spent the next three hours listening to Sherlock rattle on about a million deductions he's made from some poor sods laptop, who the dog thief stalking around London was, and drinking tea. Molly sat cross legged on her purple sofa with her bare feet tucked under her legs, and laughed at the right points, made morbid jokes and sniffled. Mary watching her like a hawk, and Sherlock pushing doubts to the back of his mind.

Molly sometimes smiled and watched them with the same expression a mother wears. Fondness, and comfort. In a way, they were her family. And while she had to fake a few smiles and a few laughs, it was worth it. It was worth it if she'd never have to see their expressions droop or their happy bubbles burst. She wanted them to be normal with her. Even if she was anything but.

Eventually their topic moved to Moriarty."

"Any trails on the 'Miss Me' tape Sherlock?" Mary asked. Molly choked on her tea.

"You okay?" Mary said, patting her on the back. Molly nodded, brushing her aside. Mary frowned slightly and turned back to Sherlock. He tensed. Mary smiled and patted his arm.

"Don't worry. You'll get there." She assured him.

"Right Molly?"

Molly nodded, hiding behind her mug, gripping it like her life depended on it.

"You sure you're okay?"

"Don't worry, I'm okay."

Molly stood on her step in her purple fluffy dressing gown. Mary hugged her skinny friend. Sherlock tapped his foot, about to explode with boredom.

"Get well soon okay? It's a nightmare dealing with both of them!" Mary stage whispered. Molly giggled. Sherlock glared.

"For gods sakes! Do you really need to hug her for that long!? Let's go!" He snapped, and jumped into the cab. Mary laughed, and purposefully walked at a snails speed to the cab, waving at Molly. Molly smiled and waved them off as they disappeared around the corner.

She closed her eyes.

She was okay.

Turning around, she went back inside, locking the door behind her. Her face deflated, her insides sinking like dead balloon. Her head rested against the cold wood of the door as she listened to the cold silence of the house.

"Hello Molly."

She gasped, swirling around.

"Did you miss me?"

**Thankyou to Yami, catsgotmytongue, and InMollysWildestDreams for reviewing! And please let me know what you think so far. I feel like I'm either adding too much description, or not enough. Love to know what you think ****J****(Feel free to PM me any story ideas)**


	3. Then-Chapter 3

**Then**

**Chapter three: Perfect**

"Good morning Molly! Feeling better I take it?"

John grinned, practically skipping into the morgue. Molly glanced up and smiled.

"Yep. Went to the doctors in the end. He gave me some meds. Feeling a lot better now." He nodded, pulling out a stool. Sherlock sat over a microscope.

"Hey Sherlock." Molly added, flicking through paperwork.

Sherlock glanced up briefly. It'd been three days since her friends little visit, and the pathologist looked a lot better. No puffy nose, hair tucked away neatly, nails painted a gentle pink. She looked better- No- She was better.

Still, something didn't feel right to the detective. Something made him squint slightly at her perfect appearance and shiny nails. Something made his brain twist around her smile, something made him analyze the way her fingers scratched the papers. He bit his tongue.

And said nothing.

It was none of his business after all.

"You're in a good mood today John." She noted, nodding at John, as she scribbled on the sheets in childish wobbly handwriting. John coughed and smirked to himself.

"Had a good coffee." He shrugged. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Shut up Sherlock."

"Did you know morning sex has been statistically proven to be a cause of weight gain?" Molly giggled. John choked on air and muttered something about crap-TV. She glanced up from the papers.

"No new cases then."

"How did you know?"

"Well," She grinned. "Sherlock doesn't usually learn embarrassing facts for no reason." John nodded, his entire face flushed like a tomato. Moly laughed and shook her head.

"You've stopped seeing Carl Molly." Sherlock said. Molly dropped the pen. The echo it hitting the table was louder than bomb fire. She froze. Hands shivered, smile dropped. Sherlock tapped his foot. John nudged her.

"Are you okay?"

"Oh. Uhm. Yes. Of course I'm fine!"

"Sherlock. Shut up next time you shove your nose into other people's business."

"Oh no no. It's fine really. He didn't want… um… Well, we just didn't fit well."

"Oh. I'm sad to hear that."

"What? Why would you be sad? She didn't break up with you?"

"Never mind Sherlock."

Molly laughed. She'd been doing that a lot John noticed.

"Mary's right. You two should've got married." Sherlock scoffed. John glared. A moment of dragging silence screamed through the room before the detective's phone rang. And again. And again.

"You going to get that?" He didn't answer. John huffed and grabbed the mobile, flicking it on and bringing it to his ear.

"Hello? Sherlock?" The voice filtered through.

"Hello Greg, and no it's just John. You have a case for us?"

"Uhm. Of sorts. John you might want to sit down."

Sherlock's head flicked up, as did Molly's. The voice from the phone smothered the room in cold sweat.

"What? Why? What's happened?"

"John, please sit down."

John fell onto a stool, eyes flickering around the room like the answer was hidden in a corner somewhere. Water flooded his limbs.

"What is it? Is Mary okay?"

"Mary's fine. It's… It's Mrs Hudson…"

"She's in a coma."

_"SHUT UP. YOU WILL DO EXACTLY AS I SAY WON'T YOU." Her head hurt. Drums rattled in her ears, deafening her, hurting her. Always hurting her. Limbs flopped like liquid. Time dragged forwards like chalk on a blackboard. Agony. Pain._

_Emptiness._

_She could see him. Him. And then the monster. And then just him again. The fluffy hair, the round puppy eyes, the lazy frayed hoodie. And then a shark. A monster with a dagger grin, with a plastic smile, with crimson dribbling from his mouth. A hand hit her face. Mud smothered her lungs, her heart._

_"Look at me my kitten. Look at me." A hand moved her head up, something wet dribbled down her face. Tears? Surely not. She was beyond crying now. She wondered if she even knew how to anymore. How to feel anything. Maybe she'd disappeared completely. Maybe she'd never existed to begin with. Maybe the tumour had swallowed her. Maybe the tumour is her, and she is the tumour. His voice was quiet. It burnt. It smoldered._

_"Good girl." _

_She remembered something. Words from a book. Or a film. Or somewhere. A thick fog clouded her mind._

_"He hurt you remember kitten? Broke you right in two. Don't you want you're revenge? I can give you you're revenge darling. I love you. I want to help you."_

_The fog shifted slightly. Ah, she knew the words know._

_"Together,"_

_The world is a wicked place._

_"We. Will. Burn. Him."_

_And there are some very wicked people in it._

"Do her family know?"

"Yes. We told her sister and managed to get hold of her nephew. They're coming down tomorrow."

John nodded, rubbing his crinkled forehead. Sherlock sat by the bedside, just waiting. Watching.

"Is there no evidence at Baker Street?" The doctor asked. Lestrade shook his head.

"Nothing from what we can see." They glanced at Sherlock. Waiting for a rude comment. The silence deafened them.

"I'm sorry." Lestrade said.

I'm sorry. What a ridiculous thing to say. Human beings are so dependent on meaningless condolences. We fall onto them, let them tangle us in webs, and then shatter when they tear, and fall again. Only to find ourselves trapped in another web. And so the cycle continues. Until we learn to pull out alone.

"I should go."

"So should I. Mary is waiting." They looked at each other. At Sherlock.

"Will erm… You be okay Sherlock?" He said nothing. John reached for his shoulder. Sherlock lurched away. An emotion John couldn't place flicked over his face.

"I'm _fine_." He hissed. The emptiness in Johns gut swirled slightly. He nodded stiffly and walked out. Lestrade stayed for a second like he wanted to say something, but what he wanted to say, wouldn't go into words, and what he could say was utterly useless to a being as clever as Sherlock Holmes. So he left. Closing the door silently.

The detective closed his eyes.

And placed John,

And Lestrade,

And Mrs Hudson

Into a box.

Which he hid under tangles and layers of facts, statistics. Until he couldn't find the energy in him to find the emotion he felt, and emptiness flooded his mind.

A case.

Nothing more.

So he watched Mrs Hudson with mild interest, and left.

Not looking back.

**So, did ya like it?**

**(Sorry it took forever for me to update. My brain won't work properly. Or at all really.)**

**Please review? Pretty please with a cherry on top? ****J**


	4. Then- Chapter 4

**Then**

**Chapter 4:**

Three men stood inside a yellow taped sector staring at a crime scene, Sherlock Holmes, John Watson and Greg Lestrade. They were in Mrs Hudson's apartment, a small box of a room coated in sugary wallpaper and dotted with` purple furniture. By the half in sat the instrument used to take the lethal blow to the elderly woman's head with a small trickle of crusted blood on the edge, just a simple knife handle, and a small black cassette tape sat next to it. No fingerprints, no DNA, no mistake. Nothing.

Sherlock leant down and took the tape.

"Guessing you've checked for fingerprints." He muttered, raking his eyes over the strange object like a starving man. John rubbed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Any ideas?"

Sherlock ignored him and brushed through the door. They stumbled after him, up the stairs of Baker Street to his apartment. The detective ripped through the messy of the room throwing papers aside. Eventually he pulled out a cassette player from piles of papers. He shoved the tape in, and pressed play. A quiet rustling echoed though the room, and then came a voice. A child's voice.

"Did you miss me Sherlock? Has it been boring? No chance to be the hero when I'm not around. No fun is it? Well don't worry. You're not the only one who can play dead. But our little game of hide and seek is over Sherlock. The east wind is coming, it's coming to get you."

They stared down at the cassette.

"He's… Back…?"

Sherlock turned his back to them. The cassette player dropped to the floor.

"He's back? But Sherlock you said-"

"It might not be him." The detective snapped, rummaging through more drawers.

"It could be anyone posing as him."

"But that was a kid?! Jesus Christ. He's got a kid." Lestrade said.

"How the hell could he fake his death? The bullet tore right through his brains? It's not possible."

Sherlock blanked them out, rubbing his temples and flickering his eyes through mazes of facts and solutions.

A child.

Moriarty, or fake Moriarty, had kidnapped a child.

He had sent Mrs Hudson into a coma.

And now he had left a message. An utterly meaningless message meant for nothing but mockery, to trickle fear into the minds of his opponents. Sherlock didn't want to admit it, but it_ felt_ like Moriarty. A man who thinks it's all a game.

"Now what?" Lestrade asked.

"There's no evidence, no leads, nothing. Do we just wait?" John exhaled slowly. Sherlock slammed the drawer shut, and a smile graced his features. Not a nice smile. A cold smile.

"I need to speak with an old friend."

"What?"

"Who?"

"Kitty Riley."

"So this is it?"

"Yes. Unless I've remembered incorrectly."

"Like that'll ever happen." John muttered. Lestrade rapped on her door. After a moment it opened, a blue eye peeked around the door. It narrowed instantly.

"Who are you?" She said. Lestrade flashed her his police ID.

"May we come in?" She sighed, the eye closing for a moment, before she opened the door fully, revealing a small corridor into her house, and a white bathrobe wrapped around her figure.

"Guess I don't get much choice-" She glared at the other two.

"They stay outside." She snapped, pointing to Sherlock and John. Looks like she recognised them. Lestrade frowned.

"They are helping with the investigation I'm afraid. Sherlock told me you were an 'old friend'?" She scoffed, running a hand through her fringe, making it stick up at weird angles.

"Yeah right. This man ruined my career. Set it back by at least two years." She stalked over to Sherlock, who stared down at her impassively. If anything he looked amused.

"Do you have any idea how many journalists there are at _my _door? All begging for a tiny snippet of James Moriartys life? Of his personality. Do you have _any idea _how embarrassed my editor was, how long it took to get back to the pathetic place I am now." She glared up at his, eyes glinting dangerously. Lestrade gently nudged between them. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Hang on, what are you talking about?"

"I think Miss Riley is referring to the lies she published in the paper concerning James Morirty's innocence and my guilt. I assume her newspaper didn't take the mistake too kindly."

"Shut up you bastard! You've messed up my entire bloody career! You don't even have the bloody decency to apologise-"

"Alright, alright. That's enough." John said, dragging Sherlock to the side.

"Miss Riley," He continued, "There has been an attempted murder, and we suspect that one of Moriartys henchmen is still out there. Any information about him is extremely helpful. Please. We need all the help we can get."

Kitty bit her lip, glaring at them stubbornly.

"Please?" Lestrade tried. Eventually she sighed and rubbed her eyes.

"Fine. Come in then." She muttered. They walked inside, sitting on her living room sofa.

The main room was small. Frames of maps and photographs smothered the wall in splattered memories of sunnier days, a cranky TV set slouched across from them, and an oak table stood like an ancient ruin by their side, looking as if it could topple at any moment.

Kitty left for the kitchen, and the scream of a kettle began.

"Old friend?" Lestrade snapped at Sherlock. John sighed and shook his head.

"God knows where he got that one from."

"You really think she can help us?"

"We're about to find out." The detective whispered. She marched back in armed with mugs of steaming coffee that she put on the table, the structure wobbling dangerously. She fell into a small chair opposite them.

"So, to what do I owe the pleasure?"

Lestrade sipped his bitter coffee and explained the murder and their reason to suspect Moriarty. Sherlock closed his eyes, leaning back against the sofa he dwarfed, cold leather tickling his neck. Lost in the darkest recesses of his mind. John watched him, curious. He was so cold. So distant. Not even a blink of emotion had cracked through his metal exterior when he saw his friend, their friend, lying in the hospital bed. Or if it had, he'd missed it completely.

He wondered what it would be like to feel nothing.

He wondered if that's how Sherlock felt.

"Miss Riley, any information you can give us at all about him is crucial. Please." Lestrade finished. Sherlock cracked his eyes open. Kitty sighed, rubbing her forehead.

"I don't understand why you're asking me for help."

"We have no leads, and you lived with him for sometime. We 're looking for any sort of strange behaviour or anything."

"Well he was a murderer. He wasn't the most normal of people." She sipped her coffee, nestling deeper into the scratchy armchair before continuing.

"He said weird things. Hated anyone touching any of his files and papers. It was kind of like living with a stressed businessman. Went berserk if I so much as went into his room. Other than that he was nice. Easy going, understanding, funny. Just a typical good guy I guess."

"What were the files and papers? Do you know?"

"No. he said they were about work stuff. You know, acting scripts."

"Didn't it bother you? I mean why would he be so protective over them?" Her throat tensed, her lip stiffening. She fumbled her hands on her lap.

"No. Why would it? I wouldn't like people snooping around my stuff either." She stared into her steaming drink, biting her lip. Sherlock sat forwards, eyes narrowed.

"You're lying." He said. She blinked, glaring at him.

"Why the hell would I lie? He's a bloody murderer! I want him gone as much as you do."

Sherlock stared at her. She could feel his eyes burning into her soul, raking out the truths like an animal scavenging for a sent. She shifted slightly, turning away from him.

"Are you afraid?" John said. Her eyes went icy cold.

"I have nothing to hide. He's gone. Why would I be scared?" She said. The three men exchanged glances at her poorly concealed lies. She was hiding something. It was obvious. But what? She watched them, irritated.

"Anything else?." She asked as she sloshed the cold drink on the table and left the chair, walking around the room to tidy up some papers.

"Would it be okay if we looked through the room Moriarty stayed in?" Lestrade asked. She folded her arms, eyebrows dragging over blue eyes. Like she couldn't decide. Sherlock categorised every flicker of her face, filing it away to evaluate later.

"Fine." She said. "But there's nothing there. It's pretty empty really."

She led them to a smaller room, consisting of peeling wallpaper, an empty bookshelf, an oak desk and a small bed. Dust floated in the air like a thick fog, glimmering in the golden sunlight peeping through drawn blinds, casting zebra-like stripes across the room.

Sherlock draped his eyes over every detail to the human eyes.

"Where did he keep these papers?" John asked. Kitty pointed to the desk.

"They were piled up over there. Not neatly either." Sherlock frowned.

"And you never saw what was on any of them?"

"No." She tapped her fingers against her elbow. Nervous energy? Sherlock wandered around the room, peering behind the furniture and under the bed.

"He took everything with him when he left." She said. John nodded. Sherlock stopped. Lestrade glanced around, expecting some sort of clue to appear before him. There was nothing.

"There's nothing here." He muttered. Lestrade nodded in agreement.

Then he did something completely un-Sherlock. Patience with the lying woman burnt out, he marched over to Kitty. And grabbed her shoulders, glaring at her dangerously.

"Sherlock get off her! Now! That's an order!" Lestrade yelled, grabbing the detectives arm, John grabbed the other, but it was like pulling iron.

"Sherlock stop it!" The doctor snapped. Kitty leant back, away from him, eyes wide and breath in short staccatos.

"What are you hiding." He snapped.

"Nothing! Get away from me! You could be arrested for this-"

"Oh trust me, I'm not going anywhere until you give me some answers. Tell me."

"I don't know what you're talking abo-"

"TELL ME." He roared suddenly, shaking her roughly.

"GET OFF ME. I'VE DONE NOTHING WRONG. GET AWAY FROM ME."

"SHERLOCK STOP IT NOW." John yelled, Lestrade finally pried his hands off her and yanked him back.

"Jesus Christ." Lestrade snapped, struggling with the childish man. Sherlock pulled out of his grasp, and stood still, staring at the floorboards stoically. Kitty shivered, anger bubbling through her features.

"Get. Out." She hissed.

"Miss Riley, we're sorry-" John began.

"GET OUT." Lestrade dragged a silent Sherlock through the corridor and out the door into the freezing weather, the morning sun tickling his hair. John paused just in front of the door. Kitty glared.

"Leave before I call the police-"

"Please, if you know something like Sherlock thinks, no matter how terrible it may be or how terrifying, you need to tell us. If this really is Moriarty, there will be more than just one dead body on your conscience." She faltered slightly, face unsure.

"Please." The doctor tried again. Her lower lip wobbled. It was like watching a broken clock, stuttering between two choices. For a moment John thought she would tell, but then the anger returned like a venomous snake and she shoved him outside, slamming the door and locking it tightly.

"What the bloody hell was that Sherlock!? Getting mad solves nothing! We could've gotten the truth if you hadn't been so stupid! Now we'll be lucky if she doesn't call the police!" Lestrade snapped. The detective smirked coldly.

"She won't call the police." He stated, walking out to hail a cab.

"Oh yeah? How can you be so sure." He yelled over the roar of London traffic.

"Because we've got the truth." And he held up a single key.

**I'm sorry that chapter sorta sucked /:-l And I know how it's taking me agesssss to update I'M SORRY! LIFE IS SO BUSY! And I'm just so good at procrastinating… **

**Thankyou to all my lovely reviewers: (And now I'm going to respond to them in the Authors Notes, because I feel ungrateful just ignoring them)**

**TwilightMortal: Ummm… The wait wasn't thaaatttt long right? SORRY!**

**Piglet7722: I shall try ;-) And thankyou for reviewing!**

**Teekee-Cha: Glad you enjoyed! And I promise to try and update faster ****J**

**InMollysWildestDreams: Yes! Bring on the darkness! Dark Sherlolly is always better than the lighthearted stuff to me ****J**** Maybe I'm just strange…**

**Pleaseeee review? Prettyyy please?**


	5. Authors Note

**Authors Note:**

**Uhm… Please don't kill me? I'm so so sorry /:-l **

**I'm struggling so much with this story! I didn't think to really plan what was going to happen to begin with and now I'm stuck. Completely. I have NO ideas. **

**BUT**

**I'm not not not 110% not giving up on this story, I just may have to change my mind a bit and think this through. **

**So please don't give up on me! Again I know how maddening it is when an author doesn't update regularly, I hate it too! Just bear with me please, and eventually, (After many cups of tea) my brain will start functioning again.**

**Thankyou again for being so patient and for all the people who have followed and reviewed, and please please PLEASE if you have any ideas, TELL ME. I need your ideas!**

**I might also start another story to keep me busy until I have ideas for this one, but I'm focusing on this one still so then again, maybe not.**

**Sorry again /:-l**


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